


The Prussian Santa

by Mandelene



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, FACE Family, FACES family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandelene/pseuds/Mandelene
Summary: Alfred's brother, Matthew, and many of the children at school don't believe in Santa Claus. It's up to Alfred to find Santa and meet him in the flesh so he can prove everyone wrong and make this the best Christmas ever!





	The Prussian Santa

**Author's Note:**

> Merry belated Christmas, everyone! Sorry I had to post this two days after Christmas. Typing almost 6000 words took a bit longer than I anticipated it would. I'm still having some wrist problems, so I had to take breaks, but I persevered! :D Enjoy and please leave a review if you can! All feedback is very much appreciated. Also, if you're not following me on Tumblr, my username is Mandelene just as it is here, so please check out my blog. Thanks a bunch!

It’s late, and the light in the kitchen is on. 

Alfred can hear hushed murmuring taking place between his parents as they tiptoe around in their slippers. Why does he have to go to bed at nine o’clock while Dad and Papa can stay up as long as they want? It’s Christmas Eve—bedtime rules shouldn’t apply. He wants to stay up and see Santa come in.

The other day, he warned Papa that he’s worried about how Santa’s going to reach them this Christmas. They moved into a new house closer to both Papa and Dad’s jobs early in the year, and now they don’t have a chimney. How will Santa get in without chimney access? Then again, lots of people live in homes without chimneys, right? He probably can just teleport or cast a spell on the front door to let himself in.  
  
What about the new alarm system, though? Will that get triggered when he comes in? What if the police have to come in and Santa decides he’s never coming back to their house?

He rubs his eyes and hides a yawn behind his hand as he crosses the kitchen threshold. He notices Dad first because he’s sitting at the table, surrounded by gift wrap, bows, and rolls of clear tape. Papa, on the other hand, is putting frosting on some gingerbread cookies that he must have just baked. 

When Dad snaps his gaze to Alfred, the murmuring stops. He drops the pair of scissors in his hands, clears his throat loudly, and quickly rises from his chair. He stands in front of the table, trying to block it from Alfred’s view. Now Alfred knows what Dad means when he uses the phrase “like a deer caught in headlights” to describe when he or Papa catch him doing something he shouldn’t be doing because that’s exactly what Dad looks like.  
  
“Alfred, why aren’t you in bed?” Dad asks sternly, as though all of the scandalous evidence behind him is irrelevant. He uses his stern, no-nonsense tone, which usually is enough to make any child quiver with fear.

But Alfred isn’t afraid. Not now. Not after witnessing… _this_! What in the world is Dad doing with _his_ Christmas presents? Did he steal them from Santa?

“Why are you wrapping the presents?” he asks, voice a little more high-pitched and upset than he intended. “W-What about Santa?”

He bursts into a wail, and in a matter of seconds, both Dad and Papa are wrapping their arms around him and trying in vain to console him.  
__  
Dad sighs. “Please don’t cry, Alfred. You’ll wake your brother and sister. It’s just a misunderstanding…”  
  
“He’s tired and cranky. Let’s bring him back to bed,” Papa says.  
  
Alfred wrenches himself out of their arms and shrieks, “What happened to Santa? What did you do to him?”

“Ahh, the truth finally comes out. I’m sorry to tell you this, Alfred, but your father is the Grinch who stole Christmas,” Papa says with a half-grin. “He has spoiled Christmas yet again. Have you no shame, Arthur?”

Dad scoffs, shoots Papa a venomous glare, and attempts to rub Alfred’s back fervently. “You’re not helping, Francis…It’s all right, love. Why don’t you go back to sleep? You don’t want to be exhausted in the morning, do you?”  
  
“S-Santa…” Alfred sobs and attempts to shake his father’s hand off of his back. Is it true what some of the kids at school say? Santa isn’t real? He always thought they were just bluffing, but now he’s not so sure. “Is Santa real?”  
  
Dad looks over at Papa, bites his lip, and says, “Perhaps he’s old enough to hear the truth?”  
  
Papa shrugs his shoulders and sighs, “Look how upset he is already. The damage is done. Tell him, then.”  
  
Alfred slows his crying and looks tearfully up at the two of them. “Tell me what?”  
  
Dad takes a deep breath, crouches down to be at Alfred’s level, and says, “The truth of the matter is…W-Well…You see…Santa Claus is a very busy man, and so, he left the gifts with us and requested your papa and I wrap them and put them under the Christmas tree for him.”  
  
“Really?” Alfred asks, eyes wide. 

“Yes. I didn’t want you to think poorly of Santa, and so, I didn’t say anything sooner.” 

Papa crosses his arms and clicks his tongue—he must not be happy that Dad has been wrapping the presents, too. It’s a good thing he’s around to make sure Dad doesn’t _really_ steal Christmas.  
  
“And so, there’s nothing to fret over. Everything will be sorted, and the presents will be under the tree tomorrow morning, as promised,” Dad explains, giving Alfred a little reassuring squeeze before he starts walking him to the stairs and in the direction of his and Mattie’s bedroom. 

Poor Santa. He must really be overworked if he’s asking Dad, of all people, for help. Huh…Tough times. 

He lets Dad tuck him back into bed and settles down. He tries to go back to sleep, but it proves to be impossible. It sounds like Santa’s on his own out there and needs a hero—someone who can buy him enough time to finish wrapping the presents and put them under all of the Christmas trees in the neighborhood.

He has an idea. 

* * *

 

“Why did you do that? You’ve just made things worse by perpetuating the lie,” Francis scolds Arthur when he returns to the kitchen. “You should have simply told him the truth.”  
  
“So that he could be heartbroken and spend the rest of the night crying? He’s not ready. He’s only seven-years-old.” 

“When he finally does realize Santa isn’t real, he’s going to be resentful toward you.”  
  
“No, he won’t. He’s just a child. He’ll move on,” Arthur insists before going back to wrapping gifts.

“If this backfires, I’ll say I told you so.”  
  
“Oh, I know you will,” Arthur says with a dry smirk. “You never miss an opportunity to criticize my decisions.”  
  
“It’s _constructive_ criticism.”  
  
“I beg to differ…Anyway, when can I try one of those biscuits?” 

Francis grins coyly, breaks off the head of one of the frosted gingerbread men, and holds it up to Arthur’s mouth. “It depends, have you been naughty or nice this year?” 

Arthur grabs the cookie with his teeth, chews it as he’s taping up a gift, and mumbles, “I beg your pardon. I’m incapable of being anything _but_ nice.”  
  
Francis barks with laughter. “No coal in your stocking this year?”  
  
Michelle, their youngest, who is just two-years-old, begins to cry.

Arthur volunteers to get up and says wearily, “Ask me that question again in the morning. I can only keep up this _nice_ streak for so long.”

* * *

 

“Hey, Mattie? Mattie, wake up. It’s important.”  
  
His twin brother scrunches his face up like a bunny and rolls over on his side with a small groan, not pleased at having been roused. He burrows his nose into his pillow, holds a fist against his mouth to block a yawn, and sleepily mumbles, “What? Did you have an accident?”  
  
Alfred flushes red and shakes Matthew a little harder than necessary. “No! Wake up, already!”

Reluctantly, Matthew raises his head and asks, “Why?” 

“We have to help Santa so that he can give all of the kids on the block their presents.”  
  
“Santa? Santa’s not real…”  
  
His own brother doesn’t believe in Santa Claus? When did this happen and how? Hasn’t he watched _The Polar Express_ before? Doesn’t he realize that the reason Santa is probably having such a hard time and asking parents to wrap presents is that not enough children believe in him anymore?

“He’s real, and we’re going to save Christmas.”  
  
“Al, I’m tired.”  
  
“You can sleep later. Come on. Put on your shoes and let’s go.”  
  
“Go where? We’re not allowed to go outside without an adult,” Matthew reminds him as he pulls the covers up to his neck to indicate that he doesn’t plan on leaving his bed. He’s comfy.

Too comfy. 

Alfred jumps on his brother’s stomach, eliciting a scream of disapproval from him. He then quickly presses a hand against his brother’s mouth to shush him. “Stop it, or else Dad and Papa will hear, and we’ll get in trouble.”  
  
Matthew swats Alfred’s hand away and glares. “We? You’re gonna get in trouble. Not me. I’m staying.”  
  
“Mattie, why do you always havta do this? We’re brothers. You’re suppose’ta help me.”  
  
“I’m going back to sleep. I was dreaming about a puppy.”  
  
“That means Santa’s gonna bring you a puppy, but he’s not gonna bring it if you don’t save him with me.”  
  
“He’s not gonna bring one ‘cause he’s not real,” Matthew huffs under his breath. He pushes against Alfred’s chest with both hands, trying to get him off.  
  
“Think about the puppy, Matt. And if Santa’s not real, then you can prove it to me if we go outside and can’t find him.”

“If we go outside and you don’t find him, can I sleep?”

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, but don’t cry when he doesn’t show up.”  


Alfred crawls off of Matthew, hops down from his bed, and pulls on a pair of snow boots. The sooner they can get outside, the better. It’s already after midnight, and since Dad hasn’t finished wrapping the gifts Santa supposedly left with him just yet, maybe there’s still time to catch him before he leaves the neighborhood.

Mattie goes through the time-consuming effort of putting on a coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. Honestly, does he have to be so slow and such a goodie-goodie about everything? He’s not going to catch a cold from being outside for just a little bit.

“Aren’t you gonna put a coat on?” Mattie asks him, and Alfred just shakes his head.

Fortunately, Mattie doesn’t keep nagging him about it, and so, they start heading out, they’re halfway down the hall when they suddenly hear Michelle start crying.

That’s not good—that means one or both of their parents will be coming up to check on her, blocking their path to the stairs.

“Hurry, go back!” Alfred whispers as loud as he dares, racing back to their bedroom and shutting the door.

Sure enough, footsteps come up the stairs a minute later and go padding into the nursery. When the coast seems clear, Alfred pushes the door open just a bit and listens…

  
_“Shhh…What’s the matter, poppet…?”_    
  


More footsteps—Papa enters and joins them.  


_“Is ma chérie all right?”_  
  
“Yes, but her teeth are bothering her again.”  
  
“She’s been managing fine without her second molars. Why does she need them now?”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot.”  
  


From beside Alfred, Mattie snickers, always slightly amused by his parents’ bickering. Alfred, on the other hand, finds it more annoying and embarrassing at birthday parties than anything else.

“We should go now, while they’re both busy with Michelle,” Alfred suggests, struggling to keep his voice low. He isn’t used to having to be so quiet for long stretches of time.

__  
“The door to her room is probably open. They’ll see us. We should wait ‘til they go back downstairs.”  
  
“But then they might hear us go through the front door from the kitchen.”  
  
“Yeah, but if we go now, they’ll definitely catch us,” Mattie says, erring on the side of caution, “but this was all your idea so do what you want.”  
  
“No, you’re right,” Alfred admits unhappily, shutting their door to a full close again. “Let’s wait until they’re gone.”  
  
Santa definitely won’t be in the neighborhood now! Would he really stick around for this long? If they don’t find him now, it doesn’t prove he’s not real—it just means they might not have been fast enough. 

Alfred’s not sure how many minutes pass before Matthew says, “Okay, I think they’re gone.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Pretty sure.”  
  
Alfred wedges the door open once more, peeks his head out to be certain, and nods, giving Mattie the “O.K.” to follow him.

However, their route to the stairs is blocked yet _again_ —by the person they least expect.  
  
Michelle is up, toddling on her little legs and rubbing her red eyes.

“Papa?” she asks as she staggers out to the hallway and sniffles. “PA—!”  
  
This time, Matthew is the one doing the shushing. He holds his hand against Michelle’s mouth and uses his other hand to comfort her by petting her head. “Shh, shh, Michelle. Don’t call Papa. We’re here. We don’t want Papa or Dad catching us, okay? So, you need to be really, really, quiet. Can you do that?”  
  
He releases Michelle, and she blinks her brown doe eyes at them with a tiny, adorable pout.

“I wan’ Papa.”  
  
“No Papa. Not now. Papa’s busy…Don’t cry! Look, we’re going on an adventure. Do you wanna come on an adventure with us, Michelle?”  
  
Alfred frowns. “No! Don’t invite her. Are you crazy?”  
  
When Michelle hears Alfred’s outburst, she starts whimpering again, but Matthew hefts her up as best as he can in his arms and says, “You can come. You can be our helper. Don’t cry.”  
  
Alfred rolls his eyes and wants to protest some more, but upsetting Michelle more is just going to cause more trouble for them in the long run. The only way to make sure she keeps quiet and doesn’t attract attention to them or their disappearance is, unfortunately, by taking her with them. 

“Get her coat and shoes,” Matthew orders Alfred, gesturing to the nursey with his head. “Hurry up.”  
  
“Who do you think you are to be bossing me around? I’m the one in charge here, remember?”  
  
“Do you want to find Santa or not?”  
  
Ugh, Mattie sure can be pompous and irritating when he wants to be. Sometimes, he can’t tell which one of them is more stubborn. Mattie usually just stands down because he doesn’t want to waste the energy on fighting, but Alfred also knows that his brother is certainly not a pushover in the slightest.

He grabs Michelle’s pink hat, boots, and puffer coat from her closet and then helps Matthew get her dressed, which is no small task. Now Alfred understands why his parents complain about trying to get her ready in the morning for day-care. 

With her all bundled up, they’re finally set to continue on their way. Who would’ve thought sneaking to the front door could be so complicated?

Alfred scouts ahead of them, making sure Papa and Dad are out of sight and out of earshot. They seem to be talking to one another again, which is good, and they wait until they hear the sound of Dad cutting some more wrapping paper before they unlock the door, swing it open, and dash through it. 

Mattie is in charge of making sure Michelle keeps up and doesn’t take a tumble at any point. He’s able to successfully half-carry her out to the driveway, and Alfred shuts the door as gently as he possibly can, trying not to make a sound. There’s a small click, but the sounds in the kitchen drown it out, thankfully.

“It’s cold, and I don’t see Santa anywhere, so are we done now? Told you he wasn’t real,” Mattie grumbles, holding Michelle by the hand. “And I’m still sleepy, so…”  
  
“Gimme a minute. We just got outside.” 

Alfred scans the block. It’s pretty quiet. There aren’t any cars out on the road at this time of night on their ordinary residential street. The crickets don’t come out this time of year, and the birds have migrated for the most part. The buzzing of the lampposts is about the only perceptible noise. 

“Let’s go right and get to the corner. Then, we’ll go to the playground on Blooming Street. If he’s not around, we’ll go back home,” he decides.

Frankly, there’s only one way to go because heading in the opposite direction would mean potentially getting caught by Papa and Dad—most of the left-hand side of the street is visible through the small window in the kitchen. 

Matthew lets out a groan of complaint but trails behind Alfred anyway. When they get to the intersection, he gets a little more panicky because they’re definitely _not_ supposed to cross the street by themselves.  
  
“How long do you think we’ll be in trouble for if Dad and Papa find out we’re up past our bedtimes, outside without an adult, and crossing the street by ourselves?” he asks Alfred, kicking a stone with his foot in frustration. 

“We won’t get in trouble because they’re not going to find out,” Alfred promises, easily dismissing Mattie’s concerns. His brother has a habit of being a nervous wreck even on his good days.  
  
Three blocks later, and the playground is in their sights. It looks eerie and unsettling at this time of night. The slide is slick with dew, the swings are rocking gently in the wind, and there’s a thin layer of snow blanketing everything.

“See? No Santa. Can we go home now?” Matthew pleads, shivering. 

How can Mattie be cold when Alfred doesn’t even have a coat on and he feels okay? Maybe it’s the adrenaline rush that’s keeping him warm.

Suddenly, a black car goes cruising down the avenue horizontal to the playground and starts heading for their block. Alfred swears he sees a flash of red and white in the backseat of the car as it goes past.  
  
“It’s him!” Alfred shouts before breaking off into a run and following the car. “Come on!”  
  
“Santa uses Uber?” Matthew asks in confusion before picking up Michelle again and doing his best to keep up. “They’ll think it’s weird if we follow them!”  
  
“Just don’t let them see you!” 

* * *

 

Arthur tries to sleep, but his insomnia is flaring up tonight, and something isn’t sitting well with him. How is it that Francis can fall asleep whenever he wishes, but Arthur has to suffer? 

Nights like these often consist of senseless nightmares that keep waking him up every hour or so. The cold sweats leave him feeling disgusting, and his legs are incredibly antsy and restless, demanding to be moved.  
  
He has some melatonin supplements in the bathroom. They’ve never helped before, but it wouldn’t hurt to take one.

Groggily, he carefully slithers out of Francis’s hold around his waist and shuffles his way out into the hallway. He’s not sure what compels him to do so—maybe an inherent sense of concern—but he decides he should check on Michelle again. The poor thing has been having a rough time as her final baby teeth grow in, and while Arthur and Francis have tried to keep her supplied with toys to chew on, crunchy finger food, and icy teething rings, she’s still been irritable and restless.

_She gets it from someone._

He pushes the door to the nursery open with a soft nudge and feels his blood turn cold in an instant.  
  
She’s not here. How did she climb out of her crib?

And Francis wanted to get her a “big girl bed.” How can they do that when they can barely contain her excursions in the middle of the night as is?

_Breathe. Don’t panic. She must be somewhere._  
  
After scouring the entire room, his next thought is to check the boys’ room. It wouldn’t be all that strange for Michelle to have wanted to sleep with her brothers.

And well, Arthur is sure his heart completely stops beating for several seconds when two more empty beds greet him.

“Alfred! Matthew!” he calls, hoping they’re just downstairs or fooling around. He has no reason to suspect they’re outside. After all, it’s freezing out. No reasonable child would even consider going out on a night like this, right?  
  
How did they sneak away in the first place?

“Francis!” he shouts, frantically waking his husband. “Get up. The children are missing!”  
  
Francis furrows his brows and peels his eyes open. “What do you mean missing?”  
  
“Missing as in not in their rooms. Oh God, what if they’ve been abducted? The alarms should have gone off if someone came in. We need to call the police!”  
  
“Slow down!” Francis attempts to calm him as he gets out of bed, hoping to be the voice of reason. “Check the entire house and the front yard. If we can’t find any sign of them _then_ we’ll call the police.”  
  
“How could they just be _gone_?” Arthur continues to panic, searching every closet, the underside of every desk and table, and each and every room of the house.

Nothing.

Francis opens the front door, squints his eyes at the freshly fallen bed of snow, and then turns back to grab his coat and shoes. “Their footprints are in the snow. They couldn’t have gone very far. We’ll find them. Let’s go. Bring a flashlight.”

“We’re installing bars on their windows and a new safety lock on the front door after this.” 

* * *

 

 

The car makes the next left and rolls to a stop. Alfred keeps some distance between them just in case this isn’t Santa and they get caught being out this late at night without their parents. They safely hide next to some bushes a few yards away.

“Papa!” Michelle exclaims again, and Matthew does his best to keep her silent.  
  
“Not now, Michelle. You’ll see Papa later,” Alfred assures. His heart jumps into his throat when the car door opens and a fairly tall and toned man comes out.

Alfred wasn’t wrong. He did see red and white, and that’s because this man is dressed exactly like Santa Claus.  
  
“He’s not fat.”  
  
“What?” Matthew asks, perturbed.

“I thought Santa was supposed to be fat from all of the cookies.”  
  
“Maybe he’s on a diet,” Matthew says with another roll of the eyes. Clearly, he doesn’t believe this man is Santa. What more proof does he need?  
  
_“Damn, Ludwig is going to kill me. That last shot from Antonio was a—hic—mistake.”_

Alfred tries to calm his racing heart when he sees Santa is holding a bag of gifts. He looks all wobbly and ill though, no wonder he hasn’t been able to finish all of his work in time. 

“What do we do? Do we just go up to him?” Alfred asks Matthew.

  
“That’s not Santa. It’s some guy dressed as Santa. We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  
“Santa isn’t a stranger, and how do you know that’s not him? He’s even got silver hair!”

“Santa!” Michelle cries, sending their arguing to a screeching halt as she runs as fast as her short legs will carry her. “Santaaa!”

  
“Michelle, don’t!” Matthew says, trying to grab her before she leaves the safety of the bushes, but it’s too late.  
  


The man who might or might not be Santa swivels around on his heel, nearly keeling over in the process, and narrows his eyes at Michelle. “Whoa. Kid, I’m not—”

  
Michelle throws her arms out and hugs him snugly around the waist, unbothered by Santa’s reluctance to hug her back.

  
“Uhh—hic—ugh…Where’s your mom or dad? Look, I don’t have time for this okay? Go back to wherever you came from.”  
  
“Pwesents, pwease!” Michelle says, eyeing the large bag he’s holding.  
  
“These aren’t for you…They’re—”  
  
Unable to stand it any longer, Alfred hops out of the bushes as well and walks up to the pair, absolutely giddy. This’ll show Mattie how wrong he was! This man is definitely Santa. What other explanation could there be?  
  
“Santa, we’re here to help save Christmas!” Alfred tells the man proudly, standing up tall and sticking his chest out a bit to seem more grown-up. “My dad said you’ve been really busy and you need help wrapping presents and putting them under everyone’s Christmas trees.”

Santa rubs his head as though he has a bad headache and lets out a small burp before excusing himself. “Yeah, I _am_ really busy, so if you could just get lost, that’d be great.”  
  
“Don’t you want our help?”  
  
“No. Kid, it’s like one o’clock in the morning. Shouldn’t you be sleeping or something…? I should call the police.”  
  
Alfred’s heart hurts. He just wanted to make things better. Why does Santa have to be so mean? Isn’t he supposed to love all of the children in the world? Why is he in such a sour mood?  
  
_“Alfred!”_

Oh, no. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know whose voice that it is.

A second later, Dad’s hands are on his shoulders.

Papa has one of Matthew’s hands in his and scoops up Michelle with his free arm.  
  
“What were you all thinking? Sneaking out of the house, walking to the other side of the neighborhood unattended, and now, talking to strangers! You should all know better!” Dad scolds, making sure to direct a look of disappointment at each of them in turn, even Michelle. “You could have been hurt, abducted, or even _killed_! And Alfred, where is your coat? Do you want to contract pneumonia?” 

That’s the last straw needed to make Alfred cry again. He sobs into his father’s waist and tearfully tells him about how he tried to help Santa and save Christmas from being ruined but that Santa is just a big bully and doesn’t want his help.  
  
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Dad asks him, exasperated.  
  
“Good thing they stumbled upon you and not anyone dangerous. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Papa says to Santa, exchanging a manly half-pat, half-hug with him, as though they are good friends. “Where’s Ludwig?”  
  
Ludwig Beilschmidt? The man who they sometimes see at the supermarket? He knows Santa? 

Santa doesn’t need to answer the question because the door to Mr. Ludwig’s house comes creeping open and Mr. Ludwig steps out onto his porch in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. “What’s going on?”

“Just a—hic—misunderstanding, Luddy. I’m comin’.”  
  
“Mr. Ludwig, you know Santa Claus?” Alfred asks, drying his tears with the sleeve of his pajama shirt.  
  
Mr. Ludwig raises a brow at him and suppresses a yawn. “Santa Claus?”

All of the adults exchange a look, and Alfred and Matthew have no idea what they’re trying to convey.  
  
Until finally, Mr. Ludwig says with a half-smirk, “Oh, yes…Santa and I go way back…He’s staying in town tonight…Come on in, Santa. You might want to hurry.”  
  
Just then, Santa pukes in Mr. Ludwig’s driveway, and Mr. Ludwig makes a disgusted face. “How many times do I have to tell you not to go out with Antonio, Gil—I mean, Santa?”

Who’s Antonio?

“Let’s go home—all of you,” Dad says, taking Alfred sternly by the hand before he and Papa wave goodbye to Mr. Ludwig and Santa, bidding them goodnight.

“But wait!” Alfred cries out, refusing to move. “Is Santa going to be okay?”  
  
“I’ll be fine, kid. Just listen to your parents and be good.” Santa says before directing a nod of acknowledgment in Papa’s direction. He still looks a little green. “Next week work for you? I’ll be around for a bit…”

“Sure,” Papa says cryptically.

“You’re all in a world of trouble,” Dad announces as he firmly gets Alfred and the rest of their gang to start walking back to their house. “I cannot fathom what was going through your heads. If you so much as think about opening the front door without permission in the future, so help me God...Why can’t we ever have _one_ peaceful Christmas?”  


“Santa’s a weird guy,” Alfred mumbles, trying to let go of Dad’s hand, but Dad doesn’t let him get away.

“That wasn’t Santa, dummy,” Matthew scoffs.  
  
“You’re the dummy! You don’t want to admit you were wrong and that Santa exists!”  
  
“ _Boys_ ,” Dad and Papa warn them in unison, having heard more than enough.

“This was all your idea, wasn’t it, Alfred?” Dad asks, and it’s a trick question because Alfred can’t lie, but telling the truth isn’t going to mean he’s in any less trouble either.

“Santa bring pwesants?” Michelle wonders, playing with the ends of her Papa’s hair, much to his chagrin.

“No. No presents for naughty children. You can all have coal this year,” Dad huffs, clearly very upset with all of them. 

Michelle lets out a small wail of complaint, but Papa kisses her cheek and says, “Don’t worry, _ma chérie_. You can have a present just for being so cute.”  
  
“Don’t tell her that. She followed her misbehaving brothers.”  
  
“She was coerced, poor darling,” Papa says, defending her with a little teasing grin in Dad’s direction. “We can punish them after Christmas, can’t we?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Please, Arthur? You don’t have to be the Grinch. There’s still time to change your ways and your heart.”  
  
Dad is _not_ amused. It seems any inkling of Christmas cheer he previously possessed has evaporated. “You’re getting coal as well.”  
  
Papa feigns a pout and sticks his tongue out at Dad.

Alfred has a feeling that they’re all on Santa’s naughty list this year. 

He goes to bed that night after being lectured by his parents and feels utterly miserable. It’s like the entire world has just come crashing down. Santa isn’t who he thought he was, and for some reason, now Alfred feels like a bad guy even though he thought he did everything in his power to do the right thing and be a hero. He just got in Santa’s way. He didn’t fix anything.

He’s a lousy hero.

* * *

 

**_Christmas morning._ **

“And after you’ve apologized and written a paragraph explaining why you’re sorry and what you did wrong, then you may open your presents. However, starting tomorrow, you’ll both be doing extra chores around the house and cleaning your room. No TV, no videogames, and no playing outside for the next week,” Dad decrees, doling out their punishment over breakfast.  
  
“What about Michelle?” Matthew asks, taking a large bite out of the chocolate chip pancakes Papa has made for them.  
  
“She’ll serve a timeout.”

“That’s it?”  
  
“Matthew, your sister is two. She doesn’t always know the difference between right and wrong. She follows the example of her older siblings—and you both _should_ know better,” Dad explains, and Papa readily agrees, reinforcing the stipulations to their punishment.  
  
Matthew isn’t happy that he’s being given the same punishment as Alfred when none of what happened was his idea. Besides, he never does anything wrong. It’s not fair that he should be held to the same standard, but Dad and Papa both agree that he shouldn’t have followed along with Alfred’s scheme and that warrants repercussions.

  
The doorbell rings.

Papa gets up to answer the door, and when he does, they all hear the visitor heartily say, “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, everyone! Where are the kiddos? I’ve got presents!”  
  
Alfred forgets to excuse himself from the table and goes barrelling into the foyer, beside himself with excitement. “Santa!”  
  
“There’s my favorite boy!” Santa says, looking much better than he did last night, although his eyes are a little red. “I’ve got a special present here just for you.”  
  
Alfred’s face lights up as he takes the gift from Santa and looks up at Papa pleadingly, “Can I open it?”  
  
“Oh, all right,” Papa gives in.  
  
Alfred wastes no time ripping the wrapping paper off and shouts, “A red drone! Can I fly it in the yard, Papa, please, please, please?”

“Not now, Alfred. Maybe later if you behave yourself.”  
  
“Awww.”  
  
“Don’t worry, kid. You’ll have plenty of time to test it out,” Santa says, patting his shoulder. “Now, do you guys have some cookies or something around here? I’m starving.”  
  
Papa tuts at him and points to the kitchen. “There are pancakes on the table. Your welcome to join us until Arthur inevitably decides to kick you out.”  
  
“Great!” 

Alfred can’t wait to tell everyone at school about how he actually _met_ Santa and had breakfast with him! Does he like chocolate chip pancakes, too? He must! How cool is that?  
  
This is the best Christmas ever!  
  
“Not you again,” Dad sighs when he sees Santa, but he clears a spot at the table for him anyway before he goes back to encouraging Michelle to eat her food—she’s very picky.  
  
“Now do you finally believe me, Mattie?” Alfred asks, shooting Matthew an “I told you so” look.  
  
“Sure, whatever,” Matthew mutters, not sounding very convinced, but Alfred will take what he can get.

And thanks to Santa’s presence, everyone starts loosening up a bit. Dad even says they can write their letters of apology later and open their presents after breakfast, which is shocking because Dad _never_ postpones punishments unless someone is sick. Papa, Dad, and Santa all have some coffee while Alfred, Matthew, and Michelle sip on some hot chocolate. 

When Alfred asks Santa if he made it to all of the children around the globe in time, he says yes. Well, actually, he says _ja_ in a Germanic accent, which is a little odd.

In fact, Santa was so inspired by Alfred’s appearance the other night that he finished in half the amount of time he thought he would. He realized just how many children depend on him.

“Thanks for helping make Christmas awesome, kid. Maybe someday you’ll be as awesome as me!” Santa exclaims.

Now, if Alfred could just get Dad and Papa to let him fly his drone with Santa…


End file.
